


All the times the fire died and one time it burned even my brighter

by vernonroche



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, Loneliness, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags May Change, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29598666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vernonroche/pseuds/vernonroche
Summary: ~english translation of original author's summary / traduction en anglais du résumé de l'auteur original~The rating is for profanity and references to violence, death, and prostitution.Vernon is used to the loneliness. Not like he's ever had a choice.Falling asleep beside the comforting warmth of a fire, dreaming of being taken in a loving embrace, and waking to cold ashes. Alone.He is used to it, yes.Still, he feels empty and frozen inside.Five times Vernon Roche woke alone and one time someone rekindled the fire.
Relationships: Blue Stripes & Vernon Roche, Foltest & Vernon Roche, Iorveth/Vernon Roche, Vernon Roche & Vernon Roche's Mother
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	All the times the fire died and one time it burned even my brighter

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Toutes ces fois où le feu est mort et cette fois où il a brillé plus fort](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29510358) by [Orrage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orrage/pseuds/Orrage). 



> ~english translation of original author's notes / traduction des notes de l'auteur original en anglais~
> 
> Hey!  
> A few weeks/months ago, I literally fell in love with the Witcher universe and in particular the Iorveth/Vernon Roche ship.  
> I haven't had time to play the games yet and it's been nearly ten years since I've read the novels, so this story is probably going to have a lot of errors and inconsistencies for which I apologize in advance.  
> However, this story contains spoilers for the Witcher games 2 and 3, especially for the tag "canonical character death".  
> Knowing that I am not familiar with this universe, I may have accidentally stolen headcanons from other authors in the fandom, if so, I apologize as well. Don't hesitate to come forward so I can credit you. I would give back to Caesar what is Caesar's with pleasure. 
> 
> Softness and fluff is clearly my weakness, so here is a totally self-indulgent 5 + 1 fic.  
> I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> And sorry, I'm still not able to write in English.

Vernon Roche has had his share of lonely nights during his long life as a soldier. 

Like a beast functioning on instinct, always on the alert and incapable of trust, he had to refuse himself the luxury of a comforting embrace and pay to sate the physical needs his skin demanded with hunger. These pitiful interludes were hardly satisfying, always disappointing, and sickeningly and agonizingly vulnerable. Sometimes, after the agony of combat had passed, their victory duly celebrated, he'd be accosted by a few drunk girls who led him to their beds with murmured promises and praises, but he always left their sheets at dawn, nausea filling his heart. 

He hadn't allowed the smallest slip during his time as commander of the Blue Stripes. He had earned far too much respect to risk fucking up, to let a brief affair sever the precious bond that attached him to his brothers and sister in arms, to the only home that had ever welcomed him.

So, he took his pain patiently, always looking over his shoulder and concentrating all his energy on watching over his little family, waiting for the day that he might one day be able to let his guard down. 

It wasn't that he suffered when left alone with his thoughts, but the warmth of others comforted him in a way that alcohol could hardly give the illusion of imitating. Over the months and the years, as this absence insidiously deepened the hunger for touch and softness in his core, an infected offspring began to nestle in his guts: the need to be touched and held by anyone.

A whoreson and waif before given a second chance by Foltest, Vernon's youth was shadowed by the children who seemed afraid to go near him, only to chase and beat him with sticks and stones. He had no father, brother, nor friend to wait with him until his mother returned from the far away place she was taken by her dark, bitter, and ugly clients. Vernon hated them, and his mother too, in a way. The hate was stronger than him when he lay curled into a ball by the lifeless hearth, waiting in the dark for his mother to come home and wondering if she, like the children who feigned his acceptance in their games of hide and seek, was going to simply abandon him in his unlit corner. _Filth, dirty shit, bitch_... so many names they branded him before pinning him down in the mud and ruining the clothes his mother would later mend in silence, her lips pursed and fingers worn. 

But sometimes, on certain evenings, she would return early, her complexion a little less pale and her eyes a little more alive than usual. She'd light a little fire in their modest hearth, slowly consuming some of the few logs they could afford with the small sums of money she managed to bring home. The sparks weren't bright, but they valiantly twisted about the frigid air, dancing over the broken wood like restless weeds shook through the powerful wind. 

She pulled him against her, his back pressed against her underfed stomach and she curled around him as if he was the most precious thing in the world. He let it be, sinking into her sharp bones with contentment. She tenderly called him her love, and, if he could, he might have purred. It was these rare moments when the dark, bitter, and ugly men could prowl outside without being able to make the smallest dent in their home. Without being able to reach his mother and take her far away, to a hellish place where they would only do her harm. 

She hummed sometimes, lullabies without words, melodies with no instruments other than an exhausted voice. And although her throat often ached, from cold, sickness, or something else entirely, Vernon would eventually fall asleep, nestled contentedly in her chest as it vibrated with the rhythm of the songs. 

In the morning, she had already left and the fire had died in the hearth. 

It was a long, dark, frightened loneliness, and, although punctuated by rare moments that shone like the stars, an endless solitude covered his childhood, a sky low and heavy, suffocating. 

**Author's Note:**

> ~notes from the translator / notes du traducteur ~ 
> 
> this is the first time that i've translated a fic, it was surprisingly difficult but i loved every minute. this fic was absolutely amazing to translate, please give the author your appreciation!
> 
> c'est le premier fois que j'ai traduire une fic, c'était étonnamment difficile mais j'ai adoré chaque minute. cette fic était absolument incroyable à traduire, s'il vous plaît donnez votre appréciation à l'auteur !!


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